HEARTBEAT / PRIVATE

[fancypost bgcolor=;border:0;width:450px;text-align:justify;font-size:10.5px;line-height:1.4]ooc: this is a terrible post, oops

Home. Not a concept he thought he'd be able to treasure again for a while, but here he is, taking solace in a place that's as run down as anywhere else, if not more so, just because of the inhabitants. Though his life has not been the loneliest, friends were foreign to him at a critical point during his childhood; to have people he can say he trusts is still an alien concept, but not one that's unpleasant. Outside, it's cold, empty, listless; in here, as cluttered as it is, it's warm, and it's safe, and when he smiles, people smile back, and when his mood sours, they force him to forget about the ailments. Here, he doesn't have to toss and turn in discomfort when things get too bad; sure, he still does, sometimes, but there are other, better options. Them simply being available is more than enough for him.

Some days, he's not home until late, and other days, he's not home at all; his occasional absences are cursed to no end, but the relief at re-entering somewhere not filled with people waiting to kill him is always heightened by long hours away. He contemplates taking a shower, then figures wasting the warm water isn't necessary, wrestles into new clothes (a fight he's lost more than once, considering how it sticks to his skin — nice one, Tim, finding the most ridiculously skintight outfits of all time; he needs a job that doesn't involve body-bending acrobatics, he swears), considers eating and ultimately decides against it. With no lights, the place is practically swamped in darkness, but Tim doesn't mind; if he waits a few moments, his eyes adjust quickly, making out a sleeping form on the sofa. Huh.

He'd've left Jason be if he hadn't whimpered, but the strained "Don't" is enough to grab his attention, and he frowns, brows meeting in the middle, a betrayal of concerned confusion. "Jay?" no reply at first, and part of him's convinced he's on a suicide mission, but he steps forwards anyway, reaching out with an icy hand to try and lightly shake him. "Jason, wake up. Wake up. Can you hear me?"
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[fancypost bgcolor=;border:0;width:450px;text-align:justify;font-size:10.5px;line-height:1.4]ooc: this one is, though ^^,
+ i have no idea?? you're doing a good job, though. it makes sense.

Cynicism is a shared trait amongst many youths, and that's a shame, but is anybody surprised? Impermanence is his middle name, a word he traces on his skin time and time again, etched into his tongue and flowing through his veins, because nothing people give is ever real, ever in it for the long haul, and maybe that's just him asking for too much, for stability, but whatever the case, when he gets a hint of it, he's automatically dubious, expecting it to be a carefully fabricated lie. The apartment, the people in the apartment, the fact that this is a place he can come back to, and usually, there will be familiar faces waiting, not doing anything in particular but just lingering in the same way people with nothing better to do often do, in that way that indicates safety. Slumped shoulders, heavy-lidded eyes, all the signs that he isn't in danger — he expects it to be ripped away from him, but that doesn't mean he won't enjoy it while it lasts. It just means he feels guilty for relaxing into it, sometimes, brushing past people like he deserves to be there. Maybe he does. He'd like to think so, because he can't imagine living anywhere else, now, with anyone else, because nobody else would fit. Not like they do.

His thoughts are so often a jumbled mess, a plethora of misgivings and uncertainties, that when clarity bursts through, it's staggering, but those moments are usually characterised by a fatality that turns the air electric, burnt ozone crackling at his fingertips and in the back of his tongue, rubbing him raw and leaving him with aching, stinging eyes. Seeing as coherence alludes to danger in any given scenario, the speed at which his mind works often plain frightening, he's usually somewhat spaced out, a mess if only because not being a mess takes up so much of his brain that he can't seem to do much else besides think, plot and plan. Everything he does is done because of decisions made by a person whose logic is clouded by exhaustion, but his bad choices haven't exactly gotten him killed yet, and he blames that both on some sort of ridiculous luck (if he can call his prolonged existence lucky) and an acute knowledge of the people around him. Even so, pretending he knows everything is a foolish thing to do, and who is he to pretend that his friends are open books? They're far from it, and he is of the same sentiment — he clutches and grasps at them, but refuses to trust them entirely. Some things are better off suppressed, and Tim'd hate to burden them with every little scar.

They all have their traumas, their nightmares, their demons, but he hadn't expected Jason's to manifest like this, and it shows, because his body wasn't tense when he made contact and it doesn't tense until it's too late, because his guard's down, because he loves, and that always makes him sluggish. An ungainly sound is forced from his lips when a weight meets his, a sort of sharp, yelped "Oof!" that leaves like a whiplash, and yeah, that's gonna hurt in the morning, the back of his head already throbbing dimly at the point of contact. Even so, that's not all, because there's a hand on his chest and a hand round his throat, and oh, he thinks, because he could die here, and that's a very plausible outcome, and he can't exactly shrug it off because it's right there, holding him down, a monster with the face of somebody he thought he knew. No— somebody that he knows. The execution is surprising, but the behaviour isn't. Everyone here is damaged, fucked over by life and life's creations, and Jason— it's not his fault, really. He's sick, they're all sick, and this is just a progression of the disease, an escalation in it that he couldn't have foreseen or predicted, not like this. If he makes it out alive, he'll just have to be more careful.

The grip's tight, and breathing's hard. Each one's a gasp, ragged and hoarse and strained already, and that's going to bruise too, maybe even bleed if Jason doesn't let up, and it doesn't look like he's going to, not until Tim gives in entirely. Part of him searches for Bell, but another part of him hates that part of him, because no, he can do this on his own, he can deal with this. It's like sleepwalking, but sleep-choking, and honestly, all he has to do is wake him up, somehow. Gently. This is a set-up for self-loathing, and Tim knows Jason'll probably hate himself for a while after, and that's really not what anybody needs. "Jay?" is that even his voice? It doesn't sound like it. He keeps his palms pressed flat against the floor, because there's no need to fight back. He has a killer instinct, too, but it doesn't kick in. Not here, not with Jason. That's not how it works with them. They're friends, sorta, and friends don't hurt each other. I'm safe. I'm perfectly safe. Look— he knows Jason. Trusts him. There's a way out of this that doesn't involve retaliation, and he knows that. He just has to. Use his voice. Or. He doesn't know. The lack of oxygen is making it hard to think. "Don't do this. Please. This isn't— it's not you, okay? This is just— you're." he's what? On the verge of adding another notch to his murder-belt? Probably, but Tim isn't really scared anymore. Not for himself.

In all honesty, he's delirious, by this point. When he laughs, it's humourless, and he's thinking stupid thoughts, like how it's kinda hot that Jay could just kill him like this, and yeah, maybe it fucking is, but that's not the best thing to consider in a situation like this. He has to get out of it, and messing around won't do a damn thing. Still, he can't seem to get his brain to work properly, and that's bad. He has to fix this. He has to. "Jason." another weak attempt, and he's really not doing much, but the longer he's held like this, the colder he becomes. Leaden limbs, heavy lids, that itching urge to go to sleep. The wrong want. He can't have it. His vision narrows, though, and that makes it harder to resist — he fights back with what little resolve he has left, wrenching his arms from their position seemingly fixed to the ground, and his movements are slower than ever, but he reaches out hesitantly, and— he's not sure what he's doing, fingertips skimming over anywhere he can reach, but if his inability to keep his hands to himself started this, then maybe it can end it. Somehow. Maybe the cold can shock him awake— he doesn't know, he's clutching at straws. "Just.. stop? Please? Come on, wake up. This— you're safe. You're.. perfectly safe. No-one's gonna hurt you, just— please."
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[fancypost bgcolor=;border:0;width:450px;text-align:justify;font-size:10.5px;line-height:1.4]ooc: three posts in one day,,
+ this is a mess at the end, sorry
++ repost with the right tags

That's not really possible, though, is it? The world's a cruel place, and if you make it to adulthood without pain, then you aren't really living, just.. existing in this idealistic bubble, one that cannot and will not prepare anybody for reality. Even so, making it without lasting mental damage would be nice — he sees normal people in the streets and wonders what's wrong with him, why he's here now, an orphan in a trio of misfits, all of them running from something, regardless of whether they know why or not — or if they even know. What's he running from, for example? He has no chasers, not any more, not to his knowledge; he shook off his tormentors (the most recent ones, that is) a while back, long enough ago for him to no longer have to worry about them slinking up behind them in the dark, and yet he fears that, all the same. Maybe he's running from his own cowardice, or from demons, shadows, things that don't make sense any more. Maybe he's just.. running. Yeah, that makes.. sense. He's just racing over rooftops and down alleyways with no real destination in sight, not really sure where he's headed but heading there anyway.

Are they like Win and Dick? Is that it? Are they that.. he doesn't know the word, because he isn't sure there is one for that sort of bond, but it's not healthy, but it's not unhealthy, either. It just is, and Tim isn't sure if he wants that or not, or if he even has it, but whatever he has, it's nice, most of the time. He likes it, the safety, the security, the steadiness that isn't actually steady, but they make it feel that way. Maybe it's just.. they calm the vertigo, Jason and Bell, and Jason's been doing it since they first met, somehow. Made Tim feel like a kid for once, and it was temporary, fleeting, but it meant a lot, still does, and he isn't sure he'll ever be able to get that across, but— he'd not say it's why he's still here, but it sort of is, not because he feels he owes something, but because he feels like he can honestly trust, and that's important. If Jason gets something out of it, too, then that's even better, because he doesn't ever want anything to be one-sided, and he'd hate to be so selfish. It's not in his nature, regardless of how he may behave at times. He'd rather love than be loved.

This isn't love, though, nor is this being loved — though some could argue that the former is what keeps him so steady. He takes advantage of shifts in pressure because that's when he can speak, even though he knows that it's becoming progressively harder, knows that he's well and truly fucked regardless of what happens — yeah, they're all new to this, friendship and surviving and scraping by, but he's almost certain that it doesn't involve this. Maybe it's his fault, though, a part of his brain considers, mulling over the possibility. He, after all, didn't know about this, this trigger, this problem — maybe he didn't press hard enough, didn't take the time to learn everything, or maybe he just didn't ever make himself seem trustworthy enough to be informed of such trigger-happy motions when caught in that precarious realm between sleep and wakefulness. It's never happened before, though, not in front of him, not even when he was right there. None of this is adding up — or maybe it's the fact that he came out of nowhere that set it off, maybe it's his fault for being so goddamn stupid, assuming that someone who's always seemed on edge wouldn't react to what, in sleep, would appear to be a foreign touch.

There's a point at which he thinks he's going to die, honest-to-God, and then it's gone, and the pressure's gone, save for a brief, lingering touch, and then everything's gone, and his chest's released, and he feels, for once, like maybe, maybe, he can get out of this. Air rushes into his lungs and he gasps like a man who's just escaped drowning by the skin of his teeth, and he rolls onto his forearms and knees, forehead pressed against the floor, breathing cut off this time by hoarse, racking coughs that don't feel good at all. He wants to throw up, but his stomach's empty, so he curls his fingers into themselves and shakes, feeling every bit the mess he probably is, and no, no, this isn't— a small, rational part of him says he shouldn't feel as guilty as he does, but he can't help it. A glance to the side, and Jay looks like he's ready to bolt. Scared. Tim doesn't really blame him, and maybe it's fucked up, but his first thought is to try and make light of the situation. Not light light, but.. light, in the sense that his twisted sense of humour is pushing at the seams, even though his tongue really doesn't want to form words. Everything aches.

"My fault." Christ. "Forgot the safe-word. Just—" again, his voice tapers off, rasping, and he's well aware that he's sort of rubbing his face against the floor, but it sort of feels good, and it's grounding him, and he really, really doesn't want to move, even if the position, with one knee drawn up to his chin and the other leg stretched out, isn't really doing anything for his back. "Don't. Worry." it's through gritted teeth, but he still sounds relatively calm. Part of him knows he has to stand up, and part of him's tired, and he wars with himself for a bit before actually trying to get up, and then— a ragged huff escapes him, because woah, no, bad idea, and his vision whites-out for a moment, and he stumbles forwards, half-grabbing the couch and half missing, and just hanging on for dear life for a second. "Water." it's not really a question as much as it is a statement, and it's quiet, garbled, but maybe Jason'll understand. Regulate your breathing, you moron. Right. He can do that, he thinks, sinking to his knees and gripping the arm of the sofa. "Don't worry."
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[fancypost bgcolor=;border:0;width:450px;text-align:justify;font-size:8pt;line-height:1.4]ooc: i'm finally here
+ sorry it's so short! paragraph three is also a mess,, again, sorry.

Tim can't say he's glad for the mess he's become, can't say he's grateful for the broken heart. Nobody gets out without a few bruises, no, but it does seem like they've been battered to the point of irreparable damage, and that's where he thinks it's unfair. They've been preyed on by life, all three of them, coming from less-than-savoury backgrounds and discovering independence at less-than-healthy ages. Heck, he'd not even hit double-digits by the time he came across his parents' corpses, even younger when he earned his first nasty scars. Lived with some sort of adoptive parent for a bit before he even bothered making his way to any other sort of town, suffered in a school he thought was shit and spent most of his time under the pressure of some other kid's fists. And saying that Jason makes it go away is a lie, but he makes it easier to breathe. It's.. easier to cope with, and he doesn't think that ghosts are able to do that sort of thing. He just thinks that Jason likes to put himself down, and that's another thing they have in common, but it's also pretty damn sad. He wants to make it stop, regardless of the consequences.

If Jason's a ghost, though, then he's not living, not really. Devoid of warmth, he's.. he's a corpse revived, a zombie whose spirit didn't get the chance to leave its prison. Yes — he's trapped here, caught up in a cell that rots him from the inside out, and Jason, untouchable but somehow free, is the messenger from the outside, someone that brings news of light and love and laughter from a world he can't seem to reach. Tim can't say when exactly he died, though — maybe it was with his parents, maybe it was just after, when they found him. Maybe it was when the kids struck that sensitive spot, taunting him because he was an orphan. Maybe it was when he realised he was never going to fit in. Or maybe, maybe, it was suicide, a wish to die, a decision to end his own life to try and better understand the ghost he'd agreed to stand by for as long as he possibly could. Of course, suicide doesn't free the soul, and he may have achieved his wish, but not in the way he truly wanted. He's so close, yet so far, and yes, he has his little group, but in joining it, he's condemned himself to hell.

But he's willingly damned. He doesn't resent the decisions he's made to get him here, doesn't resent the people around him for their own choices. Even with the phantom pressure on his throat, he doesn't hate Jason for what he's done, because it's not— Tim's good at convincing himself of things, and putting his mind to believing that Jason is innocent is easy, because he wants to believe it, wants Jason to be okay, and shifting the blame to himself isn't as hard as it might originally seem, looking at the situation. But they're both sick in the head, and sick people don't think like the general public. Sick people, apparently, tend to lash out at their friends in a semiconscious stupor, but then again, can't Tim just blame that on the sickness? Can't he blame everything on that? Maybe, and maybe not, because some things are obviously him, and some things are obviously Jason, and some things— he doesn't know. He doesn't know what he's thinking any more. He feels like he's going to faint.

He sinks back on his heels, shaking his head madly, and he wants to speak— "Shouldn't have assumed, don't feel bad—" but he just makes this hoarse sound instead, flinching when he swallows and pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. Lips curve, peeling back in a twisted grin, and he rocks back onto his knees and forearms, knuckles scraping against the wooden floor. Breathe, Tim. He tries to tell himself to calm down, but every foreign sound pushes his heart-rate up, pulse throbbing beneath his skin, and he wants to claw it out, but he can't take his hands from his face. He needs to get to the couch, to a bed, needs to sleep it off, needs a drink, but he can't form requests, can't get his body to move, can't force himself to make a sound, and his brain's scrambled. Jason's close, and his nails dig into his forehead until the presence vanishes, whereon he releases a sudden huff — but his lungs tighten when Jay returns, and it takes all of his strength to convince his body that the other is a friend. His brain believes it, but the rest of him doesn't, and he doesn't blame it, but this isn't helping.

"Yeah," he says, but it hardly sounds like it, and he nods dumbly, prying one hand from his face and reaching out in Jason's direction. I trust you, the gesture says, because he still does, and he doesn't want this to change anything, it's just— it's a minor bump, and he can get over minor bumps. He still keeps his eyes shut, though, breathing deeply through his nose. "Water?"
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